Just Vengeance
by Moon Shadow Magic
Summary: A stranger approaches Autor, hoping to hire a storyteller for vengeance upon someone unnamed, and he won't take 'no' for an answer. Takes place after my "Chapter of the Duck" but one need not read all of that. Multi-chapter, post- series. *Not* Autor/Duck. REVISED Chapter 1 posted 6/11/2013.
1. Chapter 1: Visitor

For more detailed Author's Notes and Disclaimer, see the end of this chapter. This is set about half a year after the events in my "Chapter of the Duck," although reading that entire work should not be necessary; Duck is once again human since the events therein, Fakir is out of town for a week or two, and Autor has taken to opening Drosselmeyer's Study as a museum.

Chapter 1

It was inevitable, Autor supposed. No matter how low a profile he kept, news like a descendant of Drosselmeyer and a new storyteller was bound to get around, and to the wrong sort of people.

Since the Raven's defeat a year and a half or so ago, Fakir had been kept busy trying to mesh Goldkrone into the outside world as painlessly as possible. Autor had to admit that he had had some success. Of all the things that could have happened to a somewhat quaint and antique town suddenly interacting fully with the world at large, the worst things– being preyed upon by organized criminals or governments, or overrun by machines and real- estate developers, or any number of other things, had been kept at bay.

The Academy was still a smallish but very well respected school, in a town that had suddenly turned itself into a bit of a tourist trap. This brave new world had its benefits. The Academy had more frequent guests now- dancers, musicians, authors, poets; there was talk of expanding the curriculum to include a drama division. The town theater had a full schedule now, and the Academy hosted more public events. The interest might pass once the novelty of rediscovery wore away, Autor knew, but for now Goldkrone benefited. People came now for market days: tourists to gawk, and locals to shop and gossip.

Once in a while, though, there was someone who watched, and listened, and asked innocuous questions, and eventually had Autor pointed out to them as docent of a one- room museum dedicated to the man who had written stories that came true. He hated it. They almost never had a properly reverential attitude. But there was a little money involved, and that was most useful. For that he could answer a few inane questions; and really, what else was to be done? If he didn't make use of it somehow, his parents would dismantle the place and fit what was once a shop into a boarding room for travelers or students once he was out of the Academy. And so, like today, he had opened the Study as soon as he was out of his last class, and sat down to his homework for the afternoon. It had been a busy day. Two people had come at once, a granddaughter of some notable who had bought a story from Drosselmeyer decades ago, with her husband; they had gawked, made polite conversation, and gone. So had three others over the course of the day. Another day like this and he'd have enough for that book he'd been wanting.

On other days, however, there came ones he was learning to pick out, the ones who wanted stories written. They were told that the power had died out, but they wouldn't leave Drosselmeyer's Study, ever, without telling why they wanted a tale of their own. Some few had genuine needs, and Autor had passed details of a few such on to Fakir. Very few. It wasn't the kind of thing he'd thought about much, but relief from pain or disease was the hardest sort of need to turn down. Greed, thwarted passion, indolence, and anger were so much more common.

Autor and Fakir did not particularly like each other; and that, thought Autor, was probably why they spent any time at all in each other's company, just to irritate the other. They were both still at the Academy, thankfully in different divisions; they usually spoke only when Fakir couldn't be bothered to research his gift, as Autor had for so long. But of course such research on Fakir's part would be redundant, since Autor had discovered practically everything that could be known about Drosselmeyer and the power to make stories come true.

Fakir was lucky, Autor felt, being out of Goldkrone on tour. They would be back in a few weeks, and then maybe Fakir could be persuaded to dodge his own would-be clients. For whatever reason, he hadn't wanted to leave town anyway. Since his aim was to achieve a balance where his intervention was unnecessary, and as quickly as feasible, Autor had been a little puzzled; surely the town could survive a few months by this point.

Such a waste of power, Autor thought. Responsibility was all very well, but so much more could be done. Fakir had no concept of that. For instance, disbanding the Bookmen would be an excellent move.

And then there was Duck. One couldn't think of Fakir any longer without thinking of her too.

Autor had gotten the shock of his life when he had seen Fakir after the battle between the Prince and the Raven. He had expected to find him with that clumsy red- haired underclass girl, who was also somehow Princess Tutu, not a yellow duckling with cracked ribs and a broken wing. Thereafter, whenever Fakir came to Drosselmeyer's Study, Duck came with him. It had taken a lot of getting used to, and a good bit of old newspaper. Autor soon learned not to praise Drosselmeyer too much in her company. She was most comical when she lost her temper, but it was rude to laugh at a guest, especially a la- er, gir- er, female.

Though he never let on, Autor had almost immediately realized that she still _thought_. Fakir would ask her questions, and she would answer. Autor had addressed her once or twice while he had set her wing and bandaged her ribs that morning, just to make sure; and he had found that she was indeed rational, and certainly Duck.

That had shaken him. She could move, she could waddle and eventually fly a bit and of course swim, but– it was horrifying, in a way. To be rational but to have given up the ability to talk or write or dance, as Princess Tutu or the girl had done; it was sort of like Fakir was taking care of an invalid, even after her body had healed. Autor was not accustomed to feeling pity, though they didn't seem to be particularly unhappy. She had, after all, done this to herself. The worst thing was that it was Drosselmeyer's doing, an unnecessary complication which Fakir could never use his gift to ease. He simply wasn't good enough or strong enough, and by the time he might be, Duck would be long dead of old age. Autor felt he ought to keep a discreet eye on the situation, although Fakir never showed any signs of wanting to try to write her out of her condition. He knew his lack of ability, and Duck, Autor suspected, might not have permitted such a dangerous attempt.

After all, Autor had had his own disappointment in love, and he could afford to be sympathetic toward their plight. He still could not say whether it was his own feelings or the demands of the Story that dictated his swift rush of passion for Rue; but in either case, it had not faded for a long time. He hadn't wanted to tell Fakir about it, but he had. Fakir's abrupt reply was that it had likely saved his life, and the horrific tale that followed, however dispassionately told, left him with very mixed feelings indeed.

He had striven for much of the next year to deny or suppress his memories and feelings, finally realizing that he was simply reacting in the usual hackneyed manner; since the common approach had proven unsatisfactory, he had made himself find other ways to face his losses, both of Rue and of an innocence he hadn't even known he possessed. By the time he was put to the test, when next he met her, he had been able to wish her happiness without jealousy. Mostly, anyway. Very properly, she had not referred to the incident, save for a graceful and sincere apology for her behavior at that last encounter. He had accepted it with just as much propriety. Somehow it had worked as intended; it had closed the book, for him. He had finally been able to let her go, to live a happier life than he could ever have given her.

Then they had all gone away. While the Prince and Princess were in Goldkrone late last summer there had been all that research into classical mythology and medieval bestiaries and natural histories, Russian folklore and current events, and anything at all about a particular area in the mountains to the south; then one morning they were- just gone. They had come back, a few weeks later. Autor was one of the first to know that Duck had metamorphosed back into a girl, and one of the few who would ever know the whole story. Duck had been civil to him since, even friendly, even after he had asked her what it had been like to see Drosselmeyer. She had spoken to him more than anyone, had seen his lair, had had more time in his presence than anyone else living.

She had given him a complete account, if not a concise or entirely objective one. Then Autor had asked her what she had thought of Drosselmeyer...

... And the reply, in her irritatingly sweet little-girl voice, had been shockingly unladylike for all its brevity. She understood very well that the terms of her pact with Drosselmeyer had been fulfilled precisely, but there had been blood spilt and needless suffering all through the town. Drosselmeyer's love of tragedy had hurt her and her friends, and she would not forget easily.

He'd never heard her use such language since. He had a feeling no one ever would. Not even Fakir, who had sat there, smiling a little, watching Autor's discomfiture. Of course, he'd thought at first, she would share his thoughts; but he eventually realized that that was mostly a desperate self-deception. They disagreed on too much for her to simply parrot Fakir's opinions, and she was never shy about contradicting either of them when she felt like it.

Autor was slowly coming to terms with the idea that, puissant or not, Drosselmeyer might not be worthy of all the adoration that had been lavished on his memory all those years. Ignoring the evidence would be unsound scholarship.

He had long since finished the Composition homework and had been sitting and ruminating for quite some time now, the music he was working on running through his mind, until the market should break up and there was no chance of anyone else paying to see the Study today. Soon he would be called for dinner, and then back to the school to practice. It was overcast and getting dark.

Just as he was about to lock up a few minutes early, there came a visitor. There was no knock, only the faint creak of the door and slow, halting footsteps in the stone passage. Autor stood, automatically gathering up his books and homework and placing them silently in the file drawer he reserved for his personal use when Drosselmeyer's Study was on display; then, as always, he betook himself to the spot by the desk, across from the hallway, where he could greet the customer without impeding anyone's view.

"Good evening. Welcome to Drosselmeyer's Study," he recited. "My name is Autor. If you have any questions, please ask."

Here he paused, as always. If the visitors nodded or said 'thank you' at this point, Autor would merely efface himself until they had their fill, asked about trivia, and left. Some, however, had more questions, ranging from the offensive 'who was Drosselmeyer, really?' to sincere and occasionally detailed inquiries about the man's life and work from true scholars. Or, alternatively, distracted confidences and desperate hopes about his power.

This one was different.

The visitor hung back for an instant as Autor tried to get a good look, which meant that the man's face was in the shadowy entryway while Autor was in full, well- lit view. The man did not speak until Autor had realized that fact, and had reacted by straightening his posture.

"Where is your Storyteller? I must speak with him. I have a task for a Writer." The voice was vaguely foreign, but beyond that there was something wrong about it. The intonation was oddly flat, almost mechanical, as if the man had no music about him.

"I'm sorry, sir. Drosselmeyer's power has died out. I'm one of the few left connected to the family, and-"

"No," contradicted the man. "No. There is a Writer at work in this town. You are not he; your power is of the wrong kind." The man stepped forward into the Study, leaning heavily on a cane. A plain, ordinary cane. Autor finally got a good look as the man turned slowly, taking in the display. He was growing uneasy; nothing about the man's dress was at all distinctive, although the collar of his ordinary buff- colored overcoat was still up, and the ordinary hat was pulled down low, and the ordinary glasses were somewhat tinted. The trousers and shoes were likewise unremarkable, as were the plain leather gloves. All that could be seen plainly of the man himself was the nose below the glasses. A brown moustache and neat beard partly hid the mouth, and Autor thought with a start that they might be fake; the hair seemed to lack life.

There had been people here before, looking for stories, who dressed in clothes and manners that they did not know how to wear well; people hoping to gain something that would shame them if others knew, or people who wanted to do others ill. This man wore his disguise as if born in it.

The man strolled the few paces to and fro in the Study, asking no questions as Autor observed him, inscrutable and seeming to know, perhaps to enjoy, that Autor could not pierce his defenses. Autor was at the point of speaking first, of conceding defeat, to ask how the man knew of tale- spinners; but the visitor forestalled him.

"When you see him, you will tell him that he has a client who can pay well. You may refer to me as Vendetta. I must stop a man, but he is beyond the grasp of the law. Only a Writer can reach him and halt his unholy work, and visit justice and retribution upon him. I will have my just vengeance. For this I am willing to pay much."

Autor grew more uncomfortable by the second. The man seemed to be of stocky build and average height; he limped a little as he leaned on his cane. His accent was different- a little Italian, perhaps, to go with the name. The man offered no anger and certainly no violence in his flat voice. It was wildly frustrating to be confronted with such an obvious disguise that yet could not be penetrated, and Autor stubbornly resisted the urge to give in to the man, to ask him to stay and explain. He could not do that without betraying Fakir, and this man had given no assurance that he meant no harm. Quite the reverse.

"Well. You will see me soon," said the man abruptly. "Inform your Writer of my requirements."

He left. Autor sat down, shaking a bit; Vendetta had unnerved him badly, and the worst of it was that Autor wasn't quite sure why. Five minutes later it occurred to him that that he had been visited by a villain from the cheapest of comic thrillers, and still he sat, wondering at his own fear.

There was a knock at the door. When he didn't answer, the door opened further and he realized it hadn't shut the whole way behind the visitor. Of all the people he didn't want to see just then, it was Duck.

"Do you always barge into other people's houses?"

"No, just yours," she said absently, sorting a few papers in her hands. "The door wasn't closed and the sign is still out. Fakir sent you a letter."

"Well, why didn't he just send it here?"

"He just did." Duck handed him a folded and sealed paper. "I took Charon's over already. Fakir was down to his last stamp, that's all. There's something funny about that man who just left here, did you notice?"

That got his attention. "Okay. What did you see?"

"Well, I saw a shortish man come out of here, limping toward me with a cane," she said. "He crossed the square and passed me. He was kind of slumped and pulled in like a turtle. I looked back down the street after him and saw him again, just as he turned the corner, but he was walking upright. He was using the cane but not leaning on it, no limp at all, and his collar was down. It was the same man though, there wasn't anyone else I could see with the same coat and hat. I thought the limp wasn't right. And then you didn't answer the door. So... Anyway, it was weird."

Duck moved up a notch in his estimation. One quite small notch. "I don't know who he was. He called himself Vendetta–"

"Fakir would say that was pretty obvious."

"Yes, because it was. Don't interrupt. He was so obvious I couldn't see what he was really like. He sounded almost like he was a little deaf, though. I wonder if he could fake that like he did his accent. I'd have to ask a voice major, probably, or an instructor."

"Or someone from the drama club. So if you see him again, you'll be looking for– what?"

"A man of average or greater height, who may or may not have glasses and a well- trimmed brown beard, having well- trimmed hair because I couldn't see any beneath the hat, and a normal posture. I wish I'd seen how he used that cane."

"Like this," said Duck, going to the umbrella stand by the door. She pulled out Autor's umbrella, thought for a second, then strode to the far end of the Study and back, the tip of the umbrella touching the floor lightly at each stride as it swung casually. "Like a lot of people use canes, really. Like it's just for show."

"So nothing to distinguish him at all," said Autor, disgusted.

"What did he want? If you don't mind me asking, I mean, it's not really my business."

"Well, no, it isn't," said Autor. "But the next time you write Fakir, you can tell him everything we've discussed."

"Oh, I see. He wants a story."

"He's someone who might be a little dangerous, or wants to give that impression," said Autor. "Someone willing to disguise himself and offer a lot of money. Someone who can see what happens in Goldkrone and deduce that a storyteller works here, and that I'm not it."

"Maybe you'd better tell me what he said. I'll write Fakir tonight."

"Better yet, I'll write him myself. Do you know their next address?"

Author's Notes: This is set in the same universe as my other long story, though it should be understandable without having to read that one. Relevant points: It's been a year and a half since the Raven's defeat and six or seven months since the events in "Chapter of the Duck," and everyone's growing up a bit. Duck has been a human since the events in that story, and only human; she is back at the Academy. At an apparent age of about sixteen, she is working toward moving out of the Beginners' class. During the course of that tale Fakir needed to write for Duck once more, as he did during the battle with the Raven, but has avoided it since; he will not try again unless he feels Duck might be in danger, which has not been an issue.

The Academy has revived a tradition that fell into disuse during the reign of the Story, of preparing a tour production and sending it out for some four or six weeks; sometimes it might be an opera or (more likely) an operetta, sometimes a ballet, sometimes some other sort of combined show, depending on available talent among the upperclassmen. This time- the first tour since the end of the Story- it's a ballet, I don't know which one, and it's about a week from ending the tour. Fakir has a lead though. It might not be an actual graduation requirement as we know it, but it builds resumes and gives the students a taste of what to expect as professionals.

Five pages of exposition seems a lot, but after all we never got to see how Autor dealt with everything.

This story is unusual in that I don't have anything in mind for the music.

Many many thanks to LunaSphere for beta-ing this one!

REVISED May 2013. Should have been done earlier by a few years, but now there's the first scene with Vendetta, not just a recollection. (Although I still like the idea of the visitor not being as 'real' as the metamorhosed Duck!) A few other minor things were fixed too, paragraphs broken up and suchlike.

Disclaimer: Princess Tutu and all related characters and elements are the property, copyright and trademark of HAL– GANSIS/TUTU and Ikukoh Itoh and no ownership or claim on said property, copyright or trademark is made or implied by their use in the work(s) of fan fiction presented here. This fan fiction constitutes a personal comment on the aforesaid properties pursuant to doctrines of fair use and fair comment. This fan fiction is non-commercial, not for sale or profit, and may not be sold or reproduced for commercial purposes.


	2. Chapter 2: Seeker

(For more detailed Author's Notes, Program Notes and Disclaimer, see Chapter 1 and the end of this chapter.) This story is set in the same universe as my "Chapter of the Duck." This is set about a year and a half after the battle with the Raven, around late April or early May. Duck is once again human, and studying ballet at the Academy; Fakir is on a tour with many of the seniors in the Dance and Music divisions, and is expected back in about two weeks.

Profuse thanks to LunaSphere for beta-reading this!

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Chapter 2

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Autor had stopped himself just in time from repeating to Duck the one remark meant for him alone.

"Your power is of the wrong kind." What had the man meant? What power did he have? He had none. He could write, of course, better than Fakir. Gritty, real, true- to- life stories, grand and epic stories, stories that might be published some day, but never stories that came to pass. Fakir, with his clumsy allegory and fantasy, and his tame tales of Goldkrone, had had that power fall entirely to him. Autor had never wholly gotten over the jealousy, although as things had turned out he was glad enough that the Bookmen had left him alone. The desk in Drosselmeyer's Study still bore the dent from a Bookman's axe. Autor had left it there. Somehow it was useful to have a reminder of that day.

When he went back to the Academy after dinner he found his practice room free. There was something or other going on across the lawn in the dining hall– oh yes, a reception for a touring operetta company. He supposed he ought to go to the student's performance tomorrow. Was his flat- voiced stranger with them, he wondered.

This evening the piano didn't soothe his jangling nerves, no matter how demanding the piece. No point in frustrating himself, not with this; he'd be performing it in a few weeks for his final grade for the term. He was making mistakes, like that dissonance just now. It sounded like he felt... well, why not try...?

He reached for pencil and paper and ruler, and drew a staff. Then he closed his eyes, repeated the dissonant chord, moved to the next one that came to mind, and let it go where it would for several bars. He played the result through a few times, changing and moving things a bit until he had what he wanted to hear. He wrote it down, hardly more than a few variations on a theme, and certainly incomplete.

Maybe he could develop it, turn it in for a Composition assignment sometime. It wasn't bad, but it sounded... very modern. It vented his frustration and jealousy, and the fear he hadn't admitted to himself that afternoon. Maybe he'd just keep it for a while and see if anything else should be added later. He ought to think of a name then, too, and make a better copy.

Fakir's letter was already in his pocket when he folded the scrap of music and tried to put it away. Oh yes, he'd asked for the new address of a bookshop on one of the tour stops. It seemed unimportant just now. Autor went to his dorm, trying to shed the feeling that he was being watched. He saw no one.

The operetta was a bit of satiric fluff for the masses, hilarious and sappy by turns, and had the audience humming and laughing as they left the auditorium. Whoever Vendetta was, he didn't seem to be in the cast. Autor had insinuated himself into the group of students helping backstage after the performance. He wasn't there, either.

Instead he was waiting as Autor left the building by the stage door.

Autor stifled his surprise. Vendetta had simply appeared a few paces in front of him, indistinct in the fog.

"Have you spoken to the Writer yet?"

"No," said Autor, trying to walk past without losing his dignity.

"How long will you delay?"

"Look, what makes you think such a person would listen to me, even if he existed?" Autor wasn't used to this sort of contest.

"Oh, he exists," stated the stranger in that flat voice. "I see his hand all around. He is still learning, but he is learning subtlety and responsibility. He puts others' needs before his own. It is time, no doubt, that good fortune came his way. I can provide that, for such a small service."

"And I say, sir, that–" you are mistaken, he wanted to say. He stopped himself just in time. The man might be in a ridiculous disguise, but nothing so far had indicated that he could not detect a lie. Quite the opposite. "–no such person is in Goldkrone." Okay. Absolute truth.

Silence, for an interval just long enough to become uncomfortable. Then: "I see that I must find another way. What is it worth to you to exercise your own gift?"

"What gift might that be?" Try as he might to sound uninterested, Autor knew himself to be hooked now. The man had found a lever to move him.

He hated himself for it.

"I think it must be discovered by you, yourself," said Vendetta. "It will not have the same influence as a storyteller does; it is much– how is it called? –broader, much deeper, not so fine. You must answer for yourself what you do that moves others. I cannot."

"Nothing," said Autor firmly. "If I could, would I be here? My genius is in words. There's no power like you describe."

"Yet you wear the Goldkrone Academy uniform," said Vendetta in that so- wrong voice. It was getting on Autor's nerves. "Art, and music, and dance. Writing is not why you are there." He turned and walked away.

Autor moved to follow, but stopped himself. Foolishness. Foolishness to listen. That way lay Drosselmeyer, hands cut off, bleeding to death, writing smeared words in his own blood as consciousness faded and dooming the town to live out his story. Autor had no wish to do the same. He had no illusions about courage or heroism, like Fakir had; he knew himself to have neither, and never dwelt on their absence. A properly organized life shouldn't need either. He turned to go.

He yelped at the person suddenly standing in front of him.

"Um. Sorry," said Duck. "I didn't mean to scare you."

"You didn't sc– Never mind. How much did you hear?"

"Hear what?" she said. "Come on, walk me home."

She hauled him away by his arm and chattered about the performance until they were alone in the open lawn, nearing the noisy fountain. "I think I heard everything. He's scary."

"And how did you contrive to be there? You can't– I thought you couldn't turn back into a duck anymore!"

"Oh, I can't. You said the right thing about Fakir, I think, but I can tell he's got you interested, saying you've got this mysterious power of your own. Don't listen to him–"

"I don't want to!" Autor fairly exploded, if not loudly enough to carry. "But I can't see any reason for him to say such a thing unless it's there! There's no sense in any of this! And how did you hear us?"

Duck snorted in frustration. "All right. I saw you in the auditorium and kept an eye on you all evening. I hung around afterward and went out the front when you went backstage, and I recognized him on the steps and saw him go around the corner. I followed him and stayed out of sight. Neither of you were keeping your voices down and I was only a few yards away. That's all there is to it. I think you're right about him being partly deaf, his voice sounded wrong, and he had you talking louder than you usually do. And he thinks you can do something for him. Autor, don't believe him. I don't know what he wants or why–"

"All he said yesterday was revenge," said Autor sullenly. "'Just vengeance' to be precise."

"That's enough reason not to do anything, isn't it?"

"How should I know? He hasn't exactly been generous with the details."

"That's another reason, then. Look, Fakir doesn't tell me everything, but the people he writes about are the ones who really need help, aren't they? They tell you what they need–"

"At great length," Autor groused.

"Yeah. This guy just wants to get back at someone, and he says he's got money for it. You can't even be sure of that."

"Are you telling me anything I don't know? I don't trust him. I know he's not being honest, or at least not forthright. I know you kept quiet until we got here where he can't hear us unless we see him first. But I have to ask, how does he know someone's spinning stories in Goldkrone? Does he really see something in me? How can I avoid him? And lastly, why are you involved? You know what Fakir's going to be like if you get hurt!"

Duck kept her temper. Autor and Fakir could be two peas in a pod in some ways, and by now she had had a lot of practice. "I'm here because you haven't asked anyone else for help and you look like you need it. You can't avoid him, unless you stay here at school all the time, and maybe not even then. I have no idea what he sees or how, and everyone I know who could help will be gone for weeks yet. I'm pretty sure it's out of Charon's depth, and Mytho and Rue are away. But right now I have to go, and you should too. Just think if he's watching."

It wasn't until Autor was in his own room that he realized exactly what anyone who had seen them would think, and he groaned. He could only hope that Duck would remember to tell Fakir what happened tonight. To all outward appearances those two weren't exactly an item, but Fakir would kill him anyway if he heard from anyone else that he had gone to the dorms with Duck on his arm. Appearances weren't everything. They might not turn into pink- faced, stammering idiots around each other like that tall girl and Senior Lysander had for so long, Lysander who had been so steady and laudably taciturn for years; and Duck wasn't all moping melancholy (like Lysander had been all term) even now when Fakir had been away for weeks; but still... as much as they argued, and as little as anyone saw them touch beyond the demands of a dance class, it was all there, laid out for the discerning observer like an optical illusion. Especially someone who had seen Fakir before Duck had been there, or who could grasp the fact that Fakir had run out of postage and used the last of it on her instead of his father.

Duck was prepared for Pique and Lillie to grill her about coming in on Autor's arm, to the point of being a little disappointed as well as relieved that they evidently hadn't seen. It was late, but she lit the lamp and found paper and pen anyway. If she didn't set this down now she'd forget something.

She managed to fit it all on two sheets, legibly. Being a duck around Fakir had done wonders for her writing as well as her speech. She remembered the tired, battered piece of folded paper that Fakir had always had in his pocket for that year, with the alphabet printed on it and a few common words in the margins. It had been a reliable means of communication, but so very slow that she had learned to think through everything she said before she said it. She hadn't really thought of it since until one weekend afternoon a few months ago at Charon's, when she'd needed to borrow a book. Fakir had tacked the sheet on the wall above his dresser, where it looked oddly like an embroidery sampler.

It didn't mean she could spell properly though. Probably never will, she thought; that seems to be a gift.

The music from the operetta was bouncing around Autor's mind as he readied himself for bed. Not even all good music, he grumbled to himself, just catchy, with clever lyrics. Common. To try to expel it he remembered yesterday's tune; raw in comparison, edgy, making it easier to think about his problem. He should work on it. It suited the situation with Vendetta.

Suddenly a brief phrase from the night's entertainment inserted itself into his recollection, part of a harmony but in a minor key instead of its original major, and slower. It fitted, but not into what he'd done already. It was dark, brooding, sinister... he could pile on a few more clichés, if he wanted.

Autor threw back the covers, stalked to the desk and turned up the lamp. He wanted to sleep, but the theme he was already building around those few notes wouldn't wait until morning; he might not remember. It was going to be another of those nights, when the music wouldn't let him be. Second Movement, he wrote at the top of the paper.

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Author's Notes: I don't know exactly what Autor's works sound like; it would take a composer to do the score before I did. It's original, so I can't use another composer's piece.

The touring company that visits the Academy might be putting on, for instance, a Von Suppe operetta. What little I know about Von Suppe is that he wrote overtures and popular operettas; if this were set in an English- speaking country, the equivalent might be Gilbert and Sullivan. The one piece we've all heard is the Light Cavalry Overture-- otherwise known as the theme to "Rin Tin Tin," if I remember correctly. Or maybe Dudley Dooright. Maybe both.

Disclaimer: Princess Tutu and all related characters and elements are the property, copyright and trademark of HAL– GANSIS/TUTU and Ikukoh Itoh and no ownership or claim on said property, copyright or trademark is made or implied by their use in the work(s) of fan fiction presented here. This fan fiction constitutes a personal comment on the aforesaid properties pursuant to doctrines of fair use and fair comment. This fan fiction is non-commercial, not for sale or profit, and may not be sold or reproduced for commercial purposes.


	3. Chapter 3: Early Riser

(For more detailed Author's Notes and Disclaimer, see Chapter 1 and the end of this chapter.) This story is set in the same universe as my "Chapter of the Duck," although it can stand alone if one understands a few points. It takes place about a year and a half after the battle with the Raven, around late April or early May. Duck once again became human, and studying ballet at the Academy; Fakir is away on a tour with many of the seniors in the Dance and Music divisions, and is expected home in about two weeks.

My heartfelt appreciation to LunaSphere for beta- reading this!

* * *

Chapter 3

* * *

Duck had her own problems.

At an apparent age of about sixteen, she was still in the Beginner class, although she had progressed to pointe work. Carefully and steadily she was working toward Intermediate and an assured spot in the corps, and hoped to achieve it next term. It was the result of being a duck for a year; she'd aged a little faster than she did as a human. One of the disadvantages was the loss of class time.

Two years ago last month she had appeared as a student here at the Academy, a very clumsy and distracted student; but she had discovered that, no matter how terrible she was, she liked above all else to dance. She had changed back to a duck before that fall term, and back again a year or so later. The love of ballet had remained with her all that time. Incredibly, she had been given a second chance.

This was her second term back, and she was working as she had not had the luxury of working before, when she had been Princess Tutu. If work involved getting up at the crack of dawn to snag a place in a practice room, so be it, much as she disliked early mornings. That way she might be late to breakfast, which she had seldom bothered with before, but she would not be late to class. With so many upperclassmen away on the tour it was easier to put in time by herself.

Just now Duck wanted to be alone.

Check the mirror; make certain of her form and do the basics over and over again, ever so slowly, to set it into her muscles; just like Miaowjinsky in Mr. Cat's story, just like she would do later today in class. _There_ was something; move her leg an inch _this_ way and it would be– yes, that was what she thought it should be, and a memory stirred; it felt _right_ now... there too, _that_ was the proper angle... she could do better than that, she could stretch that far without harm...repeat, and again and again, and it wasn't necessarily easier each time as the muscles grew fatigued, but keep at it, just not so much as to cause harm.... After all, as she often reminded herself, she was really just over two years old, and had no natural talent for this.

It happened several times this morning, that wonderful feeling that something was absolutely right and, once it was habit, it would remain with her always. The feeling had occurred sporadically for the last two terms. Duck knew exactly what it was; the memory of perfection was Princess Tutu's legacy to her.

As much as she liked all her friends, this sort of practice she did alone as much as she could. Mytho and Rue were okay, proficient as they were; and, yes, Fakir, although he wasn't the most patient of people and might never make a good teacher. She just had to make sure they knew what she was working on if she practiced with them. They would ask her to watch them now and again, after all. They seemed to trust her eyes. _Maybe I _can_ do that_, thought Duck, remembering a detention from Mr. Cat for disturbing the Advanced class. She'd cried out just before Rue fell from fatigue, but had known it was too late even before she had yelled.

Then she smiled. The detention had been extra practice. Had she been wrong, it would have been cleaning duty. And surely the pianist, nice as he was, would not have come in just then for practice _he_ didn't need unless someone suggested it. Pique and Lillie had been there too, keeping her company, and finally Mr. Cat himself had arrived and taken her out of Probationary. Mr. Cat was surely the most devious mind she'd ever encountered, even more so than Drosselmeyer.

A few more times through the music, and the morning spate of thoughts and recollections had given way to concentration, which was the real benefit of an early warm-up. Finally it was time to change for breakfast. She happened to glance out the window.

The figure in the overcoat was limping his way through the morning mist toward the music building. Duck controlled the impulse to run out in her tights and leotard, instead watching to make sure where he went. He tried the front door; locked, still; seniors each had a key to the side door, she knew, and the main doors weren't opened until after breakfast started.

There were more people about now, heading for the dining hall. The man walked on, away from her. She left to change, hoping to see Autor at breakfast.

* * *

"Well, he might slip up, then," said Autor that afternoon. He hadn't been in for either breakfast or lunch when Duck had been, and she had finally tracked him down in his practice room after classes. "He isn't allowed on the grounds unless he–"

"–has business with someone," supplied Duck. "He can surely spin that much of a story."

Autor deflated a bit. He looked as if he hadn't slept well. "Life would be a little easier just now if he'd take 'no' for an answer. I mean, there _is_ the little matter of school." He rubbed his face with his hands, fingers reaching under his glasses. "To top it all off I've got this music running through my head."

"What, from last night?"

"No, not that, thank goodness. No, this'll be for a composition assignment next term."

"Oh? Can I hear it?"

He was never sure whether it was meanness on his part or the desire for an audience, even if she might be a musical idiot; but he played what he had, both his first effort and then the one he'd worked on last night. It took only a few seconds. They felt right now; definitely two parts of the same unfinished piece. He looked up to find Duck looking at him with an odd expression on her face. Eventually she broke the silence.

"That's how he makes you feel?"

"What?" It came out rather more sharply than he had intended.

"Sorry," she said. "I feel like I'm intruding. But it sounds like how Vendetta is making me feel too."

* * *

Duck's memory of class and detention are from season 1, episode 4 ("Giselle.")

Reviews are welcome, as always. Two or three words will do. You can do it.

Disclaimer: Princess Tutu and all related characters and elements are the property, copyright and trademark of HAL– GANSIS/TUTU and Ikukoh Itoh and no ownership or claim on said property, copyright or trademark is made or implied by their use in the work(s) of fan fiction presented here. This fan fiction constitutes a personal comment on the aforesaid properties pursuant to doctrines of fair use and fair comment. This fan fiction is non-commercial, not for sale or profit, and may not be sold or reproduced for commercial purposes.


	4. Chapter 4: Bookmen

(For more detailed Author's Notes and Disclaimer, see Chapter 1 and the end of this chapter.) This story is set in the same universe as my "Chapter of the Duck," although it can stand alone if one understands a few points. It takes place about a year and a half after the battle with the Raven; it is now around late April or early May. Duck once again is human, and is studying ballet at the Academy; Fakir is away on a tour with many of the seniors in the Dance and Music divisions.

Thanks for reading so far, and especially for the reviews! Halfway there.

* * *

The owner of the used- and- rare bookshop might have agreed with both Autor's and Duck's feelings later that week. The Bookmen were nervous; no one was supposed to know about them, yet someone had wanted to meet with them, setting an appointment for the following day. The boy Autor had found them, and they had found the tale- spinner, and Princess Tutu had saved him in turn, but aside from those three (and the Prince and Princess) there should have been no one in Goldkrone or out of it who could have suspected their existence, much less found them.

When six of them had gone to the back room to discuss the matter that night before the appointment, a man was seated by the fire, to all appearances an ordinary customer easing the spring chill from his bones.

The stranger had had the effrontery to welcome them as if he were their host, and present them with a proposition that none of them could possibly have resisted. In return he learned everything he had wanted to know, and more. There would be no more delay.

Then the last of the Bookmen rushed in, full of news.

* * *

Autor was on his way back to the Academy after having dinner at home, heading for the library. He expected to see Duck there, but he had enough time to go by way of the old Museum. He didn't really like the idea of her keeping tabs on him, but Fakir had sent them both letters. Fakir didn't want Duck involved either, but checking that Autor was safe once or twice a day shouldn't put her at risk. Autor wasn't quite ready to concede that he might need an eye kept on himself, but if he caused Duck any distress Fakir plainly would... make life difficult.

Autor had done this occasionally, touched the rock that touched the roots of the Oak, ever since he had initiated himself as the Tale- spinners had done; and ever since he had gotten the same lack of response.

The rock was cool and rough under his fingers. Once upon a time, he was certain, the Oak had sighed for him to hear; never since had there been a sound. This was a sure way to test himself. If he had no power, the Oak would not respond. Of course, it need not respond if he did.

Tonight that would be reassuring.

He opened his eyes.

The Oak was there, and then a fearsome rush of wind and sunlight assaulted his mind as he was pulled toward it.

Her voice surrounded him, melding with the music that was ever in his mind, singing it back to him; and he began his journey.

_All is one; one is everything...._

* * *

Half an hour of irked patience expended, Duck went looking for Autor. Probably just detained at dinner, reason dictated; he did have a family, after all, and they had a perfect right to their son's company. He was to come straight to the Library, where she'd waited. She backtracked the way he'd probably come, the most direct route. She could see the dark window of his practice room as she passed the Music building; not there, then.

That meant he was on the way from his house, surely. But in the growing gloom, no light showed in the Study, and a casual glance in the ground- floor window showed a bare dinner table when she went around the corner. She summoned her courage and knocked; Autor had gone long since, and he'd have to put up with his mother's teasing about her now.

There were other places to check, and the Oak was placed high on her list; but it wasn't the highest priority.

* * *

Once on that rocky lawn, even in the half- light, there was no place to hide; but the Bookmen weren't looking at her. There were all seven-- no, eight? How could that be right? And they surrounded a ninth figure, sitting on the ground.

She couldn't hear what was being said. Three of them, two with axes, the heads resting on the ground, and one more figure with a light, were arguing with a fourth; the others hung back. The fourth man was taller, dressed in an ordinary overcoat. A few words reached her-- "Drosselmeyer," "chance to end...," "no Princess Tutu...," "look, he doesn't even know...."

For almost the first time since the battle with the Raven, Duck wished she could be Princess Tutu. That could be only one person sitting on the ground.

* * *

"I doubt you need us now. He is beyond our reach. If he survives _this_, he knows better than most that he is accountable both to the Prince and to us, and to the other Spinner."

"He seemed not to care about that overmuch. He tried to hide the other Spinner from me."

The leader of the Bookmen could see where that might not be a good idea. It was, however, one he could fully sympathize with. Twice he had tried to deliver to Fakir the justice that his ancestors had given to Drosselmeyer, and had been prevented both times. Ever since, both of these boys had governed themselves to the Bookmen's satisfaction. And then the Prince had returned to Goldkrone, and laid down the law: no more murder in Goldkrone, not for stories, and no arguing that amputating hands with axes needn't kill a person. After all, he'd pointed out, he knew the Bookmen's worst shame, two things just as bad as murder in their way....

There were worse things than having Fakir for a storyteller. The Prince's wrath might be one. They could be dragged into the Story, and instead of dispensing justice they could be made to suffer it, with all the cruelty and agony a fairy- tale could hand them.

This man was another.

"What is wrong with the boy? Why does he not move? Is he ill?"

"No, he isn't ill. This is something to do with the Tale- spinners. No, don't touch him! He may not return if we try to end this now."

"There's no Princess Tutu to call this one out."

"Look," said the younger and dimmer axe- man, fascinated, raising his weapon, "he doesn't even know we're here...."

"Oh, put that down. We know."

Vendetta threw up his hands in frustration.

* * *

An axe was raised, and the man in the overcoat threw up his hands. Autor did not move. And Duck ran.

No _grand jete_ from the town wall this time, no gleaming white Princess of Swans with a dignified authority and forceful command; but a hundred or so pounds of frightened redhead, sprinting at many miles an hour and then yelling, taken in the small of the back, can spoil a man's balance. It would not have been a permanent solution, but the odds shifted a little when the impact knocked the axe- man's foot into Autor. There was a loud _crack_, and the axe- man was flung aside, his lowered axe dropping away. Duck landed in a heap near Autor, his grip on the rock broken.

She recovered first, grabbing Autor's arm and trying to haul him upright. Groggily, he managed to stand, but then they were surrounded.

"You. You're a friend of the tale- spinner."

"And you're the man from the bookshop. Why are you doing this? Don't you ever get anything right?" Duck's temper exploded. "Wasn't it enough that you people let _The Prince and the Raven_ loose all those years ago? You let the Story loose on the whole town when you killed Drosselmeyer, and then I had to stop you killing Fakir, and now him! What's he done to you?"

Whatever she'd said, some of the Bookmen were edging away now, two of them muttering about great- granddad, not us.

The head Bookman was thinking very quickly. He suddenly had a tightrope to walk between the stranger and this girl, and he had just found out something entirely unexpected about her.

"He has been accepted by the Oak. He also is a Spinner. Do you want two of them in Goldkrone? It's bad enough that we must let one live-- he who nearly brought the Raven down upon us all!"

"We saved you, Fakir and the Prince and I! And then you tried to kill Fakir while he was doing it! What do you think the Prince will say?"

"There is no prince here," said the man in the overcoat. "Perhaps there will be no one to tell him."

"What do you mean, 'you' saved us?" said one of the Bookmen, slow on the uptake.

"I don't suppose you can show them," groaned Autor.

"Not anymore," said Duck, "Tutu was part of the Prince's heart, remember? I haven't been able to change myself since the battle."

"He still calls _you_ Tutu!"

"Not often," said Duck. _'Tutu' must be the magic word_, she thought; only the tall man hadn't backed away. It had to be Vendetta, his disguise compromised now, and he had noticed the sudden lack of support.

"And you Bookmen are afraid? Of _them?_" he asked, incredulous. "Afraid of these children? I have read Drosselmeyer's story. Princess Tutu is not to be feared, and this–" his voice turned contemptuous– "This is no Princess!"

He had said the wrong thing. The Bookmen were not moving, but now their attention was on Vendetta, and they were growing unfriendly. Unfortunately, thought Duck, it still didn't mean that she could drag Autor away through them.

Something prickled in the back of her mind. She hoped the sensation meant what she thought it might. If she couldn't escape, she could still talk, as Tutu had done....

"You. Mr. Vendetta." She didn't feel like wasting good manners on him, but Tutu had never been rude. "You've been following Autor for days now. What is it you want?"

"It is not for anyone's ears but the Spinner's."

"I think," she said, looking around the circle of cloaked men, "that perhaps you should tell us. I don't think anyone will help you until you do."

She had seen a dim movement beyond the circle, and the gleam of metal, but she did not let her eyes linger. There was only one man who could be out there. There was a long pause.

"I will tell some. You know of Drosselmeyer and his Story, and of the Spinners."

"Yes. You want someone to write you a story."

"Correct," said Vendetta. He seemed to have regained his aplomb. "A most ambitious one, a challenge to a young Spinner– or even two.

"I wish, not to hurt or kill a man, but to stop him from hurting others, from using them. This is the greatest revenge that can be taken upon him. For this service I have much to pay. If I cannot contact the Spinner who already works here, I will employ this one, who– it seems– has just found that he has the gift."

"It's not like you think," said Autor woozily, still leaning heavily on Duck.

"Nonetheless it is the gift," said Vendetta, annoyed.

_It's still wrong,_ thought Duck. _He's just making it sound good. What's the right thing to ask?_

"This man you want to stop–" Duck paused; would he answer a direct question? "–How does he use people? What does he do?"

Vendetta regarded her, but with his face in shadow she couldn't begin to read his expression. "He also is a tale- spinner. You have all experienced such a one, a storyteller who disregards all but his own desire for amusement. I can never reach him to do as these Bookmen do, to stop his body and destroy his stories. I wish only to stop the effects of his work, and heal the scars he has made over time. For that, only another Spinner's effort will suffice."

"Who is he?" The shop owner's gravelly voice startled Duck.

"That must remain between the Spinner and myself," said Vendetta smoothly. "It would hardly be fair to his family to spread his name about."

_Why didn't you tell Autor this before? It's not that big a secret! _ thought Duck. Her instincts were still clamoring that this was wrong, all wrong.

"It's your own family that's been hurt, isn't it?" she asked softly. "This storyteller is one of your family. That's how you know there's talent here. The power runs in your family." There was a long pause before the answer came.

"Yes."

Autor chose that moment to go limp, and Duck decided to make a fuss.

"Duck? Is that you?" _Bless Charon for waiting_, she thought. "Is Autor with you? It's getting late."

The Bookmen and Vendetta melted away, and let them go.

As they helped Autor along, Charon paused to pick up his own axe and crossbow from the ground. They didn't stop until they reached the blacksmith's kitchen.

----------------

Author's Note: No specific music for any of this chapter, either, although the anime used Ivanov's Caucasian Sketches, opus 10, "In a Village"(sic) for the Bookmen.

To reiterate a point I made in "Chapter of the Duck": I contend that Princess Tutu, including most of her feelings for Mytho, were all part of the heart shard that Duck bore; this is what she refers to when Autor asks if she can change.

I fear that Terry Pratchett's "Guards! Guards!" has spoiled me a bit for secret societies in black robes. (I recommend reading it, of course.) And one should never think of the Bookmen and Jawas at the same time. Really. But in all seriousness, I think the anime made the Bookmen scarier than I could manage in a piece like this.

Disclaimer: Princess Tutu and all related characters and elements are the property, copyright and trademark of HAL– GANSIS/TUTU and Ikukoh Itoh and no ownership or claim on said property, copyright or trademark is made or implied by their use in the work(s) of fan fiction presented here. This fan fiction constitutes a personal comment on the aforesaid properties pursuant to doctrines of fair use and fair comment. This fan fiction is non-commercial, not for sale or profit, and may not be sold or reproduced for commercial purposes.


	5. Chapter 5: Adept

(For more Author's Notes and Disclaimer, see Chapter 1 and the end of this chapter.) This story is set in the same universe as my "Chapter of the Duck," although it can stand alone if one understands that it takes place about a year and a half after the battle with the Raven, around late April or early May. Duck once again became human, and is studying ballet at the Academy; Fakir is away on a tour with many of the seniors in the Dance and Music divisions.

* * *

Charon had taken one look at Autor and made him sit down before pouring him a very small drink from a bottle. He put a little into Duck's teacup as well. Then he asked her what had happened while Autor's eyes bugged out and he gasped for breath.

Duck started with the letter from Fakir she'd gotten that afternoon, bidding her keep an eye on Autor, and ending with that evening's confrontation; but she didn't repeat the entire conversation. She began to falter as she realized what Fakir's reaction was going to be, when he found out she'd charged an armed man who had his friends all around. Charon merely nodded.

"Fakir doesn't want you in danger, of course, but I can't see what else you could have done, if they were that serious. I won't even argue that you should have waited for me," he said. "Now the Bookmen and this stranger know you are Princess Tutu–"

Duck sat upright. Hadn't Fakir–

"You needn't look so surprised. You look just like her now, you know. I think Fakir tried to cloud my memory with his stories, but it can't be done when I see you so often. It might work on someone who doesn't know about what he does though. In any case, the Bookmen seem to respect Princess Tutu and the Prince, if no one else.

"Now, what these men have found out is that we're all connected, although hopefully this stranger doesn't know it's Fakir he wants. That may be a forlorn hope, since he found the Bookmen."

"He has found out," said Duck, suddenly very tired. She'd said his name herself, and surely the Bookmen had told Vendetta anyway. How long had this taken? Barely an hour since she'd been waiting for Autor....

"Autor," she turned to him suddenly, "What did the Oak say to you?"

"She's so strong," he said hoarsely. "I didn't want to come out. I doubt I could have on my own." He drew a ragged breath. "They could have killed me and I'd never have known.... But it's not writing, not stories in words. It's music, all the music in my head. It's always been there. I never thought it was any good, it never sounds like anything I've ever studied, but I have to start playing it, letting it out...." His voice faded and his eyes drifted shut.

"Come on," said Duck, "We'd better get you home. Autor, wake up, just a little bit to go and then you can sleep." She turned to Charon. "At least we have an idea about what this stranger wants now. But he was lying. I gave him an excuse and he took it. I think he maybe does want someone's work erased, sort of, but he's still not being honest. I just can't see what the truth might be."

"Have to be careful," mumbled Autor. "No more damage." He roused himself and staggered to his feet. "I have to get back to the dorm. I don't want them near my parents. I shouldn't be here, even."

Eventually Charon left Duck and Autor at the front gate, making sure that Autor got to the men's dorm, and Duck to her own. Then he went home himself, disturbed. They were bright kids, like Fakir and Rue and like Mytho now that he was all right, but this was turning into a hornet's nest. Duck had never said this evening that she wanted Fakir back to deal with it. She might not be very good in school, but nonetheless she was intelligent– enough to know that Fakir might be in danger here– and there was a good bit of courage there too, enough of each to keep that boy from being hurt tonight. Some sort of distant cousin of Fakir's, this Autor, and now he was another who could turn thoughts into reality.

_Well, we all do,_ thought Charon. _It just takes most folks a lot more time and effort for less spectacular results, like me in the forge. Some people come closer, like teachers, and ordinary writers and artists. Sometimes I doubt it exists at all, this special power. But it doesn't matter now; what's important is that this stranger threatens my family over it._

* * *

Autor awoke in his own bed the next morning, wondering what his dreams had been. There had been more than the one he could remember, and none had been good. He had almost made up his mind that he should accept this commission, and be done with this Vendetta before the ballet tour returned.

Negating a story– no, a man's whole body of work. What was to stop that writer from fighting it? Was he already dead, perhaps? Was that why this less refined talent, his music, would do?

What if, like Fakir, this Spinner had helped some people? Could he pick and choose which stories to dismantle? Could that be done though music? Should it be vocal rather than just instrumental?

What if there had been benefits, indirectly and unintentionally released, and unrecorded?

What of the man's life, as well? Would his children have ever been born, assuming he'd had heirs, if the stories were never written? Would he have been able to support a family? Now that was that classic time- travel conundrum, thought Autor as he showered. Just supposing–

Pieces started falling into place. Vendetta could sense Fakir's presence here because he was a Spinner himself, although like Autor his talent might not be of a high order. Of course. What if that line Duck had fed him was so far off the mark as to have no truth at all, yet he had agreed to it? Supposing that Autor had composed or Fakir had written, and a long- dead author's works vanished, and the harm he'd done with them– but also the good? What if people were eradicated?

That would surely be murder. No one would notice, the world would be altered in significant ways, people would simply never have been born, but it would still be murder, wouldn't it? And supposing reality, or history at least, couldn't handle such a change; could the world be so affected as to end in chaos? Composing music wasn't like writing a few words; it had to be performed or it wouldn't work, he suspected, and no one was good enough to improvise this sort of thing as they played! Not when the ends wouldn't be known immediately, and the work itself would need to be re–done to correct every such error.

And supposing....

The more he thought about it, the more he suspected that he knew the intended victim's name. He sat down on the edge of his bed. If Drosselmeyer's works had never been written, at what point would he himself vanish? As the last note was played, or just transcribed? If Fakir wrote a story and left the name for Vendetta to fill in, as could perhaps be done from Spinner to Spinner, who would be affected? True, the town would never have been cursed. But Fakir's parents would not have survived– they'd never have married, one never would have existed. Neither would Autor's mother and her family. No Prince Siegfried, certainly no Duck. Charon and Rue would probably be born.

Would it be like dying, to vanish under the weight of new history?

But then who would have written the work, music or words, that was the foundation of the new cosmos, a whole new universe?

A memory surfaced. That was what one of his dreams had been asking, he was sure. What else was he missing? What had the Oak told him? That all was one, one was all, but that _all_ was not always infinite. He remembered seeing the Oak in her majesty, from long before he was born–

–and felt the pain as axes bit into her trunk. Had Fakir felt that? He'd never mentioned, although he'd told Autor what he remembered.

Another tumbler clicked in the lock. He knew now who had cut down the Oak. Like Duck had said, they had a knack for getting things exactly wrong. The Oak would gladly keep her storytellers enthralled until their bodies died, as Fakir might have– himself too– thus weeding out the very people the Bookmen feared. Come to think of it, Duck had saved them both from that.

Had the Oak meant that to be infinite, an 'all' had to be defined in terms of the finite? Such as history? That it could not be infinite if history was split, as might happen if this story were made?

_Did that last thought make any sense at all?_ Autor wondered.

He didn't feel like eating, or going to class all day, but he made his way to the dining hall anyway. Maybe Duck would be there.

* * *

"I think you're right," she said thoughtfully over her scrambled egg and toast. "Even if it's not Drosselmeyer he wants to wipe out, it'll be someone like him, probably with the same issues. I mean, I've had enough of Drosselmeyer– you know he tried to get Fakir to kill me, before the battle? But for Fakir not to exist, or you or Mytho or me– No. The world isn't for Drosselmeyer _or_ Vendetta to play with, not like that."

"I wasn't in any shape to listen last night," said Autor, watching the clock. Duck would have to leave before he did, to change for class. "Did his voice still sound so strange?"

Duck frowned. "I don't remember it being as bad as that night at the theater."

"So he might not be so tone- deaf as to be deceived by just random notes."

"Maybe not. It might all be just another act, his being hard of hearing or tone deaf. Whichever."

_No encouragement at any turn,_ he thought. "And we need to deal with this before Fakir comes back, I think," said Autor. "He shouldn't even be seen by this, this–"

"I agree," said Duck, rising. "But even if one of you does what he wants, and nothing bad happens, there's no guarantee he wouldn't be back. I don't know how to deal with him at all." Autor didn't know how she managed to keep her voice steady; she wasn't as detached as she sounded. "Sorry to leave, but I have to get to class."

Belatedly he remembered his manners and rose as well. "You did pretty well last night," said Autor. "Now he thinks you're just another idiotic, soft- hearted girl with a terrible temper."

"We can't be sure what he thinks," Duck replied. "But– thanks. If we let this all get on top of us, he _will_ win. That's about all I know right now. Will you be practicing after classes? We should go check with Charon."

As she left, there was that faint prickle touching her mind again. For a moment she felt better. Hopefully, it was Fakir writing what she felt; something he hadn't had to do since she was a duck.

_Thank you, Fakir. We're safe right now. I just don't know where to go from here. I miss you, but you can't be here yet, not until we know what to do._ Whatever he might write down would not be in those words, she was sure, and probably not all of her feelings; but still he might be reassured. Then she thought of something.

_Don't you _dare_ let this mess up a performance._

* * *

Author's Superfluous Note: No, I don't know what Charon gave Autor. Not sure I want to. Note, however, that different countries have different standards; I assume that neither Autor nor Duck is underage in this place and time. The anime is very indefinite as to historical period; I like the idea of the early 1900's.

Disclaimer: Princess Tutu and all related characters and elements are the property, copyright and trademark of HAL– GANSIS/TUTU and Ikukoh Itoh and no ownership or claim on said property, copyright or trademark is made or implied by their use in the work(s) of fan fiction presented here. This fan fiction constitutes a personal comment on the aforesaid properties pursuant to doctrines of fair use and fair comment. This fan fiction is non-commercial, not for sale or profit, and may not be sold or reproduced for commercial purposes.


	6. Chapter 6: Seer

(For more detailed Author's Notes and Disclaimer, see Chapter 1 and the end of this chapter.) This story is set in the same universe as my "Chapter of the Duck," although it can stand alone if one understands a few points. It takes place about a year and a half after the battle with the Raven, around late April or early May. Duck once again became human, and is studying ballet at the Academy; Fakir is away on a tour with many of the seniors in the Dance and Music divisions.

To those who get this far: Thank you for reading! I wasn't sure I'd post this; it was written for my satisfaction, and until Autor came up with something to do about the villain I was stuck for an ending. Then LunaSphere paid me the great compliment of beta- reading, and I decided to share it.

Happy Holidays and Merry Christmas and all!

* * *

Somehow Autor managed to get through three hours of classes in the morning and one after lunch, but practice was hopeless. He took out his new composition and played it through, and that was worse. He didn't want to have his fears thrown back at him, not after last night.

Last night he had felt wonderful, as he never had before, while he was with the Oak. Ancient and wise, accepting him at last as not even his parents had ever done, with all the rich mystery of Myth and Story spread before him– but then, the pain of the axes, a wild cry, and being ripped from her embrace–

It was dangerous, of course. He could die like that, within the Oak, as Fakir had nearly died; and he could accept such a death, being lost forever in her knowledge.

He found that his left hand had been playing a few notes, over and over, a comforting sequence. Part of a suitable motif for the Oak. That was the answer, of course. By the time Duck came to look for him he had something that he liked. This time he had no qualms about playing it for her.

And he had an idea about something he could do, but it was not for Duck's ears, or Charon's. At the very least, it would be dangerous; at worst, criminal. Nonetheless, even the prospect of such a little bit of control over the situation was to be seized. He felt that he was being stalked, that this stranger was hunting him and driving him into a trap, and that Fakir and Duck and Charon and the Bookmen might end up trapped with him. It must stop.

* * *

"I'll do it."

The church bell had not yet chimed midnight. Autor had simply dodged Duck and Charon long enough to leave a note at the bookshop, and sneaked out of the dorm after lights- out.

Vendetta had kept the appointment. Now he named a staggering sum for a composition of some length, enough to live on here for years.

"I need details, though. Your Spinner's name, and any works of his I can see. Then it will take time for me to do the research, and make sure I don't cause any unintentional harm." Autor's voice was shaking a little. That much money! But if he was right, it would never be paid, would it? Or if it was, it could be immediately recovered. No, it would be a small down- payment, maybe a stipend, and the balance would never need to be paid.

"You need not worry about that, I think. If you were to write, it might be necessary, but one can set music against chaos without that."

"I will need to know something of him, though, and his own writing is the best way to do that."

A pause. "I will leave a list with the man at the bookshop. He will have any that you do not."

Autor hesitated in his turn. This was the dangerous part, but he felt himself on firm footing now. If the bookshop had any author's complete works, it would be those of Goldkrone's most famous son. Even with the original endings gone and new ones substituted. Even though they were all in the Study as well.

"If you won't tell me, I'll make a guess. It's Drosselmeyer himself, isn't it? You want to heal all the harm he's done."

"Your Writer doesn't seem to have thought of it." Vendetta seemed to be weighing his words. "Goldkrone has had small details repaired, but the great rents in its past, no. History has not gone as it should here."

"You can see so much of this," said Autor, unable to keep the awe from his voice. "I don't think even Drosselmeyer could do that. Why don't you do this yourself?"

"Because, like you, my gift is not to write," said the tall man. "I can See, but I have no ability to undo what I see. Writing is the best and surest means to do this, but music is the most grand. It may be that your gift will prove the better after all."

"What is it, exactly, that you see?" asked Autor. He didn't need to feign his interest. Disordered history? How would that appear? Shouldn't the past remain what it was, maybe just a few bits in some people's memories blurred? How would stopping a young Drosselmeyer fix the past and present without causing worse harm? That was still a really good question.

"I am a Seer... It is difficult to speak in words, of course. I see a thing or a person as it might have been, as it ought to be. I can see people and happenings as strands, and the tangle centered here cannot be unraveled unless Drosselmeyer's work is removed first of all."

"So... how am I to avoid creating worse things than this tangle you see? Won't it just sort of heal itself in a generation or so?"

"It will never completely _heal_ without surgery, if you appreciate the medical arts. It has... formed a cyst, and indeed some strands have begun to straighten around it. But this place will remain an offense to all who value the present and the past as they should be, proceeding as all else proceeds around them.

"To give you an example, though, since you cannot See.... Your Spinner wrote in _The Prince and the Raven_ that the Prince took a bride from this place. That should never have been permitted. In exchange a mere fantasy of Drosselmeyer's has been allowed to exist here, and that is an abomination. Because of them the story can still touch reality, tainting it, infecting this place with the unreal and the fantastic."

Autor digested that for a few minutes, as he was obviously expected to. He could put names to Vendetta's 'infection,' of course. Rue had gone with the Prince, and Autor wished her well; it was Duck who had stayed– Fakir had mentioned once that he thought Duck might have been written rather than hatched. Autor couldn't think of anyone who would really wish her ill once they knew her. Wishing her out of sight and earshot, maybe, and frequently... but calling her an abomination and denying her the right to exist was... what? Extreme prejudice, at the least. He tried to avoid the word 'evil' and failed.

This man had far more in common with the Bookmen than with any Spinners. But even the Bookmen could see reason, so long as someone could command their attention long enough to drive an argument home... such as Prince Siegfried or Princess Tutu. This man, Autor was now certain, saw only his own desires, as egotistical in his way as Drosselmeyer himself. To be fair, perhaps the Seer's ability he described led to a little madness, seeing imperfection with no capacity to mend it, no means to lessen the offense against a Sight he could not put aside or ignore. After all, one could walk away from a piano or a desk at will, but not from one's eyes unless one was as desperate as Oedipus.

Was he envious of such gifts, just as Autor had been of Fakir's? It was difficult to comprehend that anyone wouldn't be, much less someone with such a need to change what he saw.

"All right," he answered the man. "I've thought for a long time that something more needs to be done in Goldkrone, but I wasn't sure exactly what. I'm just beginning to appreciate the scale of it." Would Rue, whom he had once called magnificent, be granted a normal life and a loving family if Goldkrone were purged of Drosselmeyer? No. She would be someone else entirely. There would be no Rue.

"I have no real idea of how long this will take, you must understand that. I will have to put Goldkrone as I've always known it into this, and Drosselmeyer– I know more about him than anyone else does, including the other Spinner– and then I have to resolve it so Goldkrone is perfectly in harmony with the rest of the world. At least three major ideas. No, four. It may be a full- length symphony, you know. Maybe a choral piece. Months of dedicated work, some composers take years. And.... I will have to consult the Oak." Autor fell silent.

"The Oak." Vendetta broke Autor's silence in his flat voice, slowly. "The Spinners of Goldkrone had a secret that they guarded. That is why those with the talent elsewhere are more common but less powerful. What is this Oak?"

Autor turned away, focusing on the stone at his feet. This was perfect; he could not undo it by betraying eagerness now.

"The secret is right here," he said, half turning back. "Once upon a time the Spinners were taught by an oak tree, and we still are. It's why I was here last night...."

* * *

Vendetta was still alive. Autor had left him where they had spoken, wandering the streets nearby until the last chime of midnight had faded, quite certain that the Bookmen were watching them both. Against Autor's advice, of course, as soon as he was out of sight, Vendetta had taken hold of the rock that led to the Oak.

When he returned, the man was still there. Autor had leaned close and bellowed in his ear, but gotten no response. He had thought he wouldn't. He didn't know what the man's real name was, and so could not use it to call him away. Neither, when he called them out of hiding, did the Bookmen know. They didn't seem inclined to interfere, and when Autor confronted them they no longer seemed interested in harming him. They dealt best with words, after all, and now they had seen worse than either of Drosselmeyer's descendants. It had been pure coincidence, though, that Autor had chosen last night to attempt communication with the Oak, just as Vendetta had persuaded the Bookmen that a show of force was needed to persuade Autor.

In the end, Vendetta was either very strong or very weak, they never knew which. His body didn't freeze into a tree, as Fakir's had done; he just fell over when Autor prodded him with the man's own cane, and his hand slipped off the stone. Eventually he simply rose and staggered off. Autor and the bookshop owner trailed him as far as the Square, and then the head of the Bookmen sent Autor back to school while he led the unresisting stranger to Goldkrone's tiny hospital.

A stroke, said the message the next morning, a brainstorm. The man still wasn't speaking. His boarding- room was found, his identity determined, his next- of- kin notified. The shop owner reported to the hospital that he'd awoken in the night to hear the man fall in the street but had noticed that he didn't seem to be drunk, and had then helped him to the infirmary.

Try as he might, Autor couldn't feel a great deal of guilt, and that made him wonder if he were no better than the man he might have killed. Even though the stranger would have had him write himself out of existence at best, and at the worst Vendetta might well have let the Bookmen murder him had they really wanted (and he was very relieved indeed that they _hadn't_ been so inclined.) Vendetta had put him and Duck and Charon– and probably Fakir, and heaven forbid, the whole tour group because of him– through one of the most nerve- wracking weeks he'd ever experienced. Nor was it over yet.

After he wrote to Fakir, he told Charon what had happened. Then he had to tell Duck.

It wasn't an easy interview, even though Duck just listened. At the end she seemed relieved, which wasn't the reaction he expected. He would have felt better had she shown disgust and revulsion.

"I might have killed him. I knew that when I lured him there." She didn't seem to be taking it in the proper frame of mind. "I knew, when I told him not to, that he'd try to reach the Oak. I told him why there were so few Spinners here and why they were all strong. I figured he might be jealous, and I think that Sight of his made him a little insane."

"You warned him, even so."

"I think so. Yes."

"You told him about what you put yourself and Fakir through before you tried talking to her."

"A lot of it."

"You tried to call him away."

"Yes."

"You pushed him away from her."

"Eventually."

"And you didn't kill him. He's still alive. He might even recover."

He had nothing to say to that.

"Autor, you'll survive." Duck said gently as she turned to go, when he didn't answer. "Something like this happened to me last summer, you know. I found out a lot about a murderer, more than anyone ever should have known, and I couldn't feel very bad when he was killed. I thought it was wrong of me too, since I was alive and had a lot to be happy about. This man's still alive. I know they say he's had a stroke, but that's not it, is it? His mind is still in there with her, or maybe she's with him, and he's happy. You told Fakir, you said?"

"Yes."

"Good. I mean it, Autor. Don't dwell on it. It won't do any good for him, or for you. I kind of wish we really knew why he wanted to erase Drosselmeyer's stories, though. I mean, what did Drosselmeyer or Goldkrone have to do with him? Was it really just because he could see that the past wasn't all as neat and tidy as he liked? Maybe the Oak knows."

"I'm not going back," said Autor, half to himself. "I can't face the Oak again. She'd never tell me, anyway. It wouldn't concern her."

"That's up to you," she replied. "Fakir knows more about that than I do, you'd better talk to him. He doesn't seek her out very often either anymore, not without someone around."

Autor seemed to come back to himself. "Not just anyone, always you. Even when you were a bird. You don't let him lose himself in there. You take care of him."

"Family," she said, apropos of nothing he could see, as she shut the door to his practice room. He wondered just what she meant.

It was raining, which suited her mood perfectly. She still had time to write Fakir before supper, even though he would be back next week, even though she would not find this easy. As she did so, though, she felt the vague tingle in her mind again. Good. Maybe he'd know that much sooner that everything was okay.

She sat back, letting her relief course through her, letting a few tears come quietly as they had not all that frightful week; but then, as she suspected of herself, there came the distress that Autor had not needed to see. No matter how she thought she should feel, she had very little sympathy for a man who had set about intimidating him, in order to change things so that they– and the others who were all the family she had– would not exist; not because of anything personal, even, just as a side-effect. Not that Vendetta's fate was unpleasant for him. She felt worse for Autor, who would never be sure that he had not overreacted to the situation and crippled a man's mind out of desperation, maybe permanently. He had never really been faced with anything like this before; not like she had faced in her year as a duck, nor in her time as Princess Tutu.

She might never have come up with a better solution, she realized, nor one so– fitting. Justice could be a terrifying thing. Princess Tutu might have found a more merciful way; but there was no point in dwelling on that. There was no way of knowing, now.

She had given the best advice she could give to Autor, and knew it would not be enough. He would not follow it, of course. That would be impossible for a while. He had wanted judgment, and penance; but she could not give either to him, any more than anyone else could have given the same to her when the shards of Mytho's heart were causing him nothing but pain as she returned them.

It took quite some time for her feelings and thoughts to run their course, but they did; and when they had, she felt better. She sat up again to finish the letter. With this crisis past she knew Fakir would not attempt to write about her feelings again, until they felt the need.

-------------------

Autor stared at the piano, but that got him nowhere and he knew it. He listlessly began to pick out the Oak's theme; then, subtly, let it change into something a little different, eventually gave it a resolution.

After a moment he decided. He wrote it down. It had already happened, it was done; and so it ought to be concluded on paper, and finished, and played now and again. It didn't really belong with the first two parts, though. Two assignments for next term, perhaps.

He ought to go home for dinner tonight, as well.

-------------------

Author's Note: Duck refers to an incident in "Chapter of the Duck," chapters 4 and 8; she plays an unwilling hostess to a villain's heart, and finds it nothing at all like Mytho's. Autor likewise remembers something Fakir suspects about Duck's origins, from chapter 9.

I still have no music in mind for this piece. Let me know if anyone figures out something.

Disclaimer: Princess Tutu and all related characters and elements are the property, copyright and trademark of HAL– GANSIS/TUTU and Ikukoh Itoh and no ownership or claim on said property, copyright or trademark is made or implied by their use in the work(s) of fan fiction presented here. This fan fiction constitutes a personal comment on the aforesaid properties pursuant to doctrines of fair use and fair comment. This fan fiction is non-commercial, not for sale or profit, and may not be sold or reproduced for commercial purposes.


End file.
